How I Got Here
From the artificial islands of Flevoland to the second-growth forests of Kentucky, one lesson I have carried with me: all organisms are part of the world, and all deserve dignity. That principle is what grounds my ecological passion. Over the years I've cared for mammals, insects, and crustaceans, and each has given me lessons that shape how I live and write. I do not proclaim myself as an authority in the scientific sense. What I am is an attentive keeper: someone who learns through care, patience, and direct encounter. On my website, these logs are not prescriptions or ecological research points. They're archives of beings—what I've noticed while caring, failing, adjusting, and trying again.
I didn't grow up surrounded by a wilderness or sprawling trees. Most of my early contact with organisms was fleeting, a snail on a city sidewalk, or an afternoon in a pet shop. My deeper attention began later, in rural settings. In Vermont I discovered fungi; in Kentucky I observed the critters of Appalachia; and in Massachusetts I began learning the rhythms of aquatics.
Those years coincided with hands-on roles: working as a compost quality assistant, helping at a forestry outreach center, spending seasons on horticulture and animal farms, and coordinating campus Earth Day programs. At the same time I was experimenting on my own, with mushroom kits, small soil studies, and aquariums. I began keeping notes — what conditions helped, what stressed a system, what patterns repeated. These records became my first Logs, though at the time they were simply impassioned notes.
My hands-on experience shaped my philosophy. I believe that philosophy only matters when it is embodied. The creatures I have cared for and observed are my teachers, not trophies or technical notes. Many are labeled "pests"—ants, slugs, roaches—yet they are part of the systems that keep places alive. I am not speaking from moral superiority; I am documenting care. I aim to describe them with accuracy and plain language. As I share my time with these beings, I want to honor what they teach and record it with respect.
Organisms & Lessons Learned
Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches
(Gromphadorhina portentosa) "MADs"
Hold up, I know what you may be thinking. Cockroaches, infested vermin that scuttle around houses. Yes and no. I mean MADs, Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches: wingless, chestnut-plated, and bigger than most people expect. Unforgettable, with lots of hiss and little harm. Males carry hornlike bumps on their pronotum; females are smoother. Antennae sweep the air in steady arcs before their feet commit to a step.
The hiss is their signature: air pushed through spiracles. Short bursts when startled; repeating ones when agitated; lower tones when courting or posturing. Once, I watched Aro puff himself up, shaking and hissing at a female. What sounded like fear was really a clumsy show of bravado. After molting, their bodies glow pale before hardening back to armor. They groom meticulously, threading antennae through their forelegs like ritual. To many they're scary bugs; to me, they're recyclers—efficient decomposers turning scraps into clean ground, broadcasting signals about how they feel.
Lesson Learned: Never judge an organism by its cover. MADs are not monsters and they're not going to eat you. If you read their signals and adjust to their pace, you'll find them just as lovable as the fluffy mammals!
Aro, steady on my friend's hand.
Garden Wanderers: Slugs and Snails
(Class Gastropoda; e.g., Arion distinctus, Ambigolimax valentianus)
Even among ecologists, I might be known as a gastropod fanatic. Some people notice them for the slime or call them garden pests, I see them as dexterous detritivores, quietly reshaping soil and helping us rehabilitate the planet. The mantle covers their visceral mass; the pneumostome, that moist breathing pore on the mantle, opens and closes like a slow blink. Their silver trails map where they've been if you crouch down far enough to follow.
Comfort shows in extension: the body stretches out, tentacles raised and tasting the air. Stress shortens them, draws them tight. Mucus itself speaks—thin for gliding; thick and yellow when defensive. Even once, a leopard slug nibbled at my skin after I misted my hand and let it crawl there—don't recommend it, since slugs can carry parasites. I've also seen one eat another slug. They're recyclers, opportunists, and sometimes predators. They're hermaphrodites, often with slow, elaborate courtships. Eggs appear as little glass pearls under leaves. To some they're pests; to me, they're reminders that recyclers shape soil and cycles.
Lesson Learned: Dandy detritivores are crawling at your feet. If you pay attention to the ground and all the critters underneath, you begin to see an entirely different ecosystem with many players.
Content note: Click to view information about leopard slug mating behavior
Leopard slugs during mating, suspended by a mucus rope. Photo by Michael Gäbler, CC BY 3.0.
Shell Swappers: Caribbean Hermit Crabs
(Coenobita clypeatus)
Yes, hermit crab pinchers do hurt, reminders that even small beings defend their boundaries. Terrestrial crabs in scavenged shells, tucking their asymmetrical abdomens deep inside, shutting the world out with one oversized claw. Requiring humid air, both saltwater and freshwater pools, and sand deep enough to burrow, hermit crabs ask for steady upkeep—but they're worth it. They can also be surprisingly sassy, flashing personality in a claw wave or a retreat done with attitude.
Shell-picking is not vanity. It's engineering. Hermit crabs weigh, test, and sometimes swap shells in slow, deliberate negotiations. Before molting, they retreat, dig down, and disappear—needing quiet and time.
Lesson Learned: Patience, patience, patience. Some forms of care depend on not intervening. You create conditions, and then you wait. And for me, patience is bittersweet: I lost my crabs not long ago, and writing this still stings. The soreness remains, but so does the lesson they left me.
Valen and Spike, two hermit crabs in their borrowed shells.
Tank Drama: Mollies and Aquatic Systems
(Poecilia sphenops and kin)
Mollies are drama in fins. Balloon-bodied males strut with ego, sparring with each other, flashing energy that makes a tank feel alive. They're also versatile, able to live in fresh, brackish, even salty waters if acclimated slowly. I kept them in a planted 23-gallon tropical tank, where the real lesson wasn't the fish but the system. Water isn't backdrop, it is environment. The nitrogen cycle is the pulse. When the parameters are steady, personalities emerge: schooling fish move as one; bottom dwellers rest instead of bolting. Stability reveals character.
In fact, male mollies sometimes court other males; they don't follow our categories of normal. Males use a modified fin called a gonopodium, flicking it forward during courtship displays and even in clumsy pursuits. In my tank I watched them chase each other in tight circles, posturing and testing, egos on full display.
Lesson Learned: Consistency is kindness. A stable system doesn't just keep things alive, it lets them be themselves. Drama, affection, even same-sex courtship all unfold when the water is right.
Photo by h080 / CC BY-SA 2.0
Urban Companions: Cats
(Felis catus)
Common as they are, cats deserve ecological mention: domestic felines are invasive predators, profoundly shaping local bird and small-mammal populations. Still, they remain companions humans turn to. Honey is one such companion. An American short-tail tuxedo, she came to me as a stray in Kentucky, pregnant and likely no more than two years old. Since then Honey has adapted to house cat life; she's leash trained, airport traveled, and even opens doors when she feels like it. I've seen her catch birds and climb trees as a stray, then settle into a house cat who only performs tricks on her own terms.
Before Honey, I cared for other strays. Some were rehomed, some managed in the neighborhoods, and others never made it that far. Mango Lassi, a male tabby, was struck by a car; I buried his body myself. A sobering experience, but one that didn't stop me from continuing to care where I could.
Lesson Learned: Perseverance in care is not about saving every animal. It's about showing up where you can, again and again. Affection is offered, not assumed. Trust builds in the consistencies of food, shelter, and gentleness. Even when loss cuts deep, the responsibility toward the living endures.
Honey, sitting under a bush during a walk.
From Individual Care to Urban Ecology
With all my experiences with organisms and now living on the West Coast in a dense city, I’ve redefined my interest in ecology. Urban ecology draws me because it contrasts so sharply with rural life. Rural areas often hold more access to trails, cleaner air, and open wilderness. Cities, by contrast, concentrate poor air, limited green space, and organisms dismissed as “pests.” I want to show that dignity and complexity live here too, in the overlooked lives at our feet.